


The Best and Worst of Us

by locker130



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: American Politics, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hamliza, Historical, Historical Figures, Love Letters, Revolutionary War, The Reynolds Pamphlet, Time Skips, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25514782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locker130/pseuds/locker130
Summary: Snapshots from the lives of Alexander Hamilton and Elizabeth Schuyler."We don't even ask for happiness, just a little less pain."-Charles Bukowski
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	1. From Alexander Hamilton to the Royal Danish American Gazette

**Chapter 1**

**“From Alexander Hamilton To The Royal Danish American Gazette”**

**Alexander Hamilton**

**St. Croix**

**September 1772**

Loss. That is the one word I would use to sum up my life thus far. It is a funny thing to think that after a tragedy there must come something good, for time and time again, this has been proven false for me, yet, I cannot help feeling that maybe, just maybe events will transpire in my favor. Perhaps it’s because I have happened upon my first bit of good luck.

Though a hurricane has destroyed much of the island, the house of Mr. Stevens has come out unscathed. Not to mention that work at Beckman and Cruger’s has been light and easy of late. Walking through the city now, though, crushes my luck into guilt. There’s an overcast, not only over the island but over each person I pass. Everything from the distant cries of a child to partially destroyed homes is a reminder of the hurricane. Quickening my pace because of the increasingly darkening sky and my dismal surroundings, I arrive home.

It’s taken a long time to call this place home, especially without James or Mama. But Ned and Mr. Stevens are my family now. For a while, it felt like just a prolonged stay at a friend’s house but I’ve grown to call it home.

“Hammy!” Ned greets as I walk through the door. People have always said we look alike, even going as far as confusing us for brothers. I don’t see it, especially now as he calls me that detestable nickname through a mouthful of some fruit.

“Hello, Ned. Your father still at work?” I hang my coat up, turning back around after.

He nods, fruit juice dribbling down his chin. “Want some?” He holds up an apple but I shake my head.

“I’m not too hungry. Especially after watching you eat like a slob.” He narrows his eyes and reaches out to swat me but I duck away, shooting him a smirk before running off upstairs.

“I’ll get you back, Hammy!” But he doesn’t follow me upstairs. Rolling my eyes, I enter my room, deciding to write to my father to tell him of the hurricane and let him know that I survived it, not that he’ll care.

The words have never flowed this swiftly from head to paper. Maybe it’s something about tragedy, makes it easier to write about. Maybe it’s something more powerful than I, fate, a muse, or God himself. Or maybe it’s simply that if I don’t pour all I’ve seen out on this already ink-soaked page then it will become all too much.

I almost wish I had drowned in the currents, one last momentous fight against life before giving in to the icy, dark repetition of wave after wave, but alas I’ve always been a good swimmer and as luck would have it, our house was spared. I’m not sure spared is the right word there. Spared only to bear witness to tenfold more miseries, the aftermath. Death would be sweet as to dull the echoing sounds of cries and screams that came from the island dwellers- the very people that curse my existence as if I chose to be born out of wedlock.

I don’t blame them. It is easier to dehumanize something you don’t understand than to attempt pity. I see it every day. People. Human people, in chains, shuttled in and out of this failing organ of an island. If Boston is a young beating heart, exporting and importing at a constant, momentous rate, then St. Croix is that of an old man, barely keeping up with standards, profiting off of the drug of immoral practices. The bones of the slaves are visible, bruises on their dark skin visible, the fact that they are painfully and utterly human visible. I’ve seen the faces of the men longer in the industry than I. It’s all the same to them, whether the ship has grain or slaves, cows or slaves, sugar or slaves. I always try to look at people as people. But some days it’s easier to only see cargo. 

The gentle sound of a log collapsing in the fireplace draws me back to reality. I stare at the clumped uneven plumes of my quill and let out a quiet sigh. Where have the words gone now? I lost them in thoughts of slaves and birth and death.

I look down at what I've written thus far. It’s fairly good. Maybe not my best, maybe not something you’d find in Shakespeare, but it’s just for my father. And what are the chances of him actually reading it?

I shake the thought out of my head. It’s not like I wrote it for him anyway. I wrote it to get the damnable images on paper and as far away from me as possible. Funny how my father’s the first person that came to mind. If only Mama was still here, she would read it, critique it, maybe compliment the word choice...

Giving the page a final once over as the ink dries, I fold the letter, slipping it into an envelope. Mr. Stevens and Ned must be asleep by now. Time can pass swiftly when you aren’t paying attention. Blowing the candle out, I climb into bed, lying on my back to stare up at the dark ceiling.

Surprisingly, I do feel better having written all of it down. Now lighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fanfic on A03! I hope you guys like it! I'm trying my best to be historically accurate. Please leave comments! I'm open to suggestions, critiques, ect.!! :) This chapter is real short but I promise the others will be longer!!
> 
> Quick note: Hamilton's relationship with slavery is so complicated. From my research, I believe that he greatly opposed it in his younger years and throughout the revolution but when it came to founding the nation, he realized just how improbable the complete abolition of slavery was, thus why he helped form the New York Manumission Society to gradually work towards freedom. Hamilton was definitely not the strongest of abolitionists though.


	2. "Observations on Certain Documents"

**Chapter 2**

**“Observations on Certain Documents”**

**Alexander Hamilton**

**Philidelphia**

**August 1797**

Loss. In all my wide vocabulary, that is the one word I would use to describe the few weeks. My marriage is in shambles all at my own hands. My home is an empty shell. Home. That’s an alien word now. Once I knew that word. The mere mention would bring thoughts of warm light emanating from a dying hearth, the image of Eliza’s soft smile, and the shrieks of laughter from my darling children. It’s gone. Our… no, this house is terribly quiet. I am the sole owner of fault. I took the word home and broke each gentle connotation. I allowed my own lust for love, lust for honor to destroy everything I’ve built. 

Anger used to build up hot and slow in my chest when people would call me a 'bastard' or 'whore’s son'. I worked so hard, so hard to become anything but that. I’ve decorated myself with many titles to distract from the nasty nicknames in the newspaper. Scholar, patriot, colonel, veteran, husband, lawyer, father, treasurer. But I’ve returned directly to where I fought restlessly to get away from. And publishing this will seal my fate.

The ink seems darker than usual. Maybe it’s the one measly candle I have lit, or maybe it’s the guilt embedded in each bleeding, scratched word. 

Bets- Elizabeth said she understood the reason for the pamphlet. She always understands. She sees the interworking aspects of my mind like no one else is able to. But she doesn’t want to understand… or she does? I’m just not sure. I used to understand her every move as if I had planned it myself but now each decision is a mystery. Her actions are erratic. Love and betrayal battle for her attention and I am the ground upon which she fights. Her loving arms will be around me for an impossibly sweet moment then gone for weeks. Swift, passionate kisses before disappearing into herself and not speaking to me for days. There’s a switch. But neither person is the woman who was my wife. 

One is desperately pretending to be, clinging to the hope that quick kisses and becoming an actor in our own lives will bring back our marriage. 

The other is cold. I’ve always loved winter. Memories of bright red cheeks and the intense excitement of each letter arriving at camp, hoping for Eliza’s dainty handwriting. This coldness is not reminiscent of that. It is solid ice, no fire could melt it.

The worst knowledge I have of these two women, though, is that I created them. I’m the only one to blame for what she’s had to become. 

And that’s when she walks in. Blinking hard to make sure she’s really here and not some trick of my late nights, I stand up. “Betsey… hi,” I breathe out, not sure how else to start. With her sudden appearance, I use her old nickname, a habit of the tongue.

“Elizabeth,” she corrects immediately, sharply. This is the winter cold of her. Her eyes are black in the dim candle-light, staring at me with the hate of a thousand wars. They used to be a gateway to her thoughts but she’s unreadable now, miles away. All I see is anger. I miss her as she stands only steps away from me.

“Right. Elizabeth,” I amend, breaking eye contact and placing my quill down. My hand hovers over the pamphlet, debating whether moving it from her view will only bring more attention to it. “Do you need something?”

She comes closer to my desk, her eyes and fingers skimming lightly over the papers that will destroy us both. “What are you working on?” It’s a question I’ve heard her ask countless times. This time is different. She wields it like a sword.

I move my gaze to her. “Bets-” I stop myself as her eyes snap up to look at me. “Please, don’t do this.”

Her expression holds no pity and she repeats the question, voice firm and unmoving, “What are you working on, Alexander?”

Letting out a sigh, I close my eyes for a moment before looking to the corner of the room. “The pamphlet.” Daring to look back at her, I half-expect a vindictive smile to be on her face but there isn’t, her expression is blank.

“What portion are you writing now? Perhaps I could review it for you.” Again, the words border on normalcy but her tone is edged. We’ve spent innumerable hours together in my study reading my work out loud to make sure it reads just right. Surely, she doesn’t want me to accept the offer? Or maybe she does? I search her face for an answer.

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve finished.”

This seems to take her by surprise for a moment but she recovers quickly with a single nod. “Perfect. I’ll read it over for you.” She reaches across the desk to take the stack of papers in her hands but I press a hand down hard on the pages, pressing them against the desk to keep them from her. Her eyes flicker up to me, flashing with anger as she jerks the papers out from under my hand.

“Don’t.” The word comes out with more force than I intended but she can’t read it, I can’t watch her read it.

She laughs humorlessly, shaking her head as if she can’t believe I was idiotic enough to say that. “Why not? I’ll be able to buy one off the street in a week's time!”

There is no response I can give to that. She’s right. I slump back into my chair as she runs a finger down the edge of the pages with cold amusement. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Why did you come in here?”

She shrugs and I watch the graceful rise and fall of her shoulders instead of the stack of papers in her arms. “I’m leaving for my father’s with the children tomorrow. Thought I’d help you out before we leave.”

I go completely still. Her words are straight out of the imaginary scenarios that my brain plays to keep me awake with at night. Only, this isn’t imaginary. “You’re pregnant. Such a trip is dangerous for both you and the child.” The words come out quickly, a desperate attempt to keep her here.

“I’m going,” she replies firmly, her declaration running over my plea. “I cannot stand to be in this city while everyone reads of how Elizabeth Hamilton was so easily replaced by a younger, more beautiful woman for a summer”- her voice shakes- “because she couldn’t be enough to please her own husband.” She looks not at me, but beyond, out the window, tears falling shamelessly.

“Eliza… that’s not true…” I stand, my natural instinct being to hug her, take her in my arms, and stay like that till her tears dried. But that was before. Now, I long terribly for before.

Despite the tears, her eyes still manage to look fierce as she scowls at me. “Then, why? If not because Mrs. Reynolds had more to offer, why?”

My silence hangs heavy in the air. If only I had an answer. “I don’t know.” And that’s the truth. There was never a concrete reason, no matter how hard I fought to come up with one. Sure, Maria had been an escape, some sort of sick fantasy, but I’ve been swamped with work countless times and have never needed an escape before. As soon as I had willingly walked into her apartment to give her that first check, I was trapped, a pawn in a game where James Reynolds writes the rules.

Eliza turns around, back facing me as I think back on her previous words. Being without Eliza would destroy me but I would survive. Being without the children… I couldn’t live. In a defeated, quiet voice, I ask, “Will… will you be coming back? From your father’s?”

The whole world awaits her answer, even the swaying flame of the candle goes still. “I’m not sure.” She pauses before adding, “The older boys will stay, for school.” I can tell she didn’t want to say it but the words were consoling nonetheless. Breathing a sigh of relief must make her remember my presence for she turns around, attention back on the pamphlet. 

“‘ _ The spirit of jacobinism, if not entirely a new spirit, has at least been cloathed with a more gigantic body and armed with more powerful weapons than it ever before possessed’ _ ,'' Eliza reads. I place a hand on my forehead, cringing at my own words. They were never meant to come out of her mouth, never meant to be seen by her eyes. “‘ _ It is perhaps not too much to say, that it threatens more extensive _ -’” She stops mid-sentence and begins throwing page after page to the ground, eyes briefly glancing over each one as she shakes her head slightly. “You can never get to the point, can you?”

I simply watch. A heavy guilt has settled at the bottom of my stomach. She stops, seemingly finding whatever it was she was looking for and drops all but one page, the paper quivering in her unsteady hand. “‘ _ I can never cease to condemn myself for the pang, which it may inflict in a bosom eminently intitled to all my gratitude, fidelity and love. But that bosom will approve, that even at so great an expence, I should effectually wipe away a more serious stain from a name, which it cherishes with no less elevation than tenderness _ ’.” 

A thick silence follows.

She places the single page in front of me, a derisive smile flickering across her lips before disappearing into a straight line. 

“I  _ hate  _ our name,” she says, voice low but impossibly clear, “I am embarrassed to be a Hamilton.” 

Every syllable is filled with venom, rendering me paralyzed.

Since we met, I’ve been worried I would embarrass her with my bastard status, with my lack of money, with the quality of my clothes, with the empty seats at our wedding where my family should have sat,  with our much too small first house. And now that I do, not in the way I expected, it feels like a blow to the very foundation of my being.

All I can do is nod. “I know.” It comes out as a whisper, more pathetic than I would have preferred. She must feel some sort of regret because her eyes go soft, stone expression dropping. But she shouldn’t regret the truth. She shouldn’t regret what I deserve.

“Mama? Papa?” A small voice calls. Johnny’s face pokes out from around the doorway.

“What are you doing out of bed, young man?” Eliza asks, turning around. Though her words are meant to be stern, there is clearly a smile in her voice. The change in atmosphere is like waking up from a nightmare in a warm bed. We’re back to pretending.

“I wanted to say goodnight to Papa,” he answers, the picture of innocence as he steps fully into the room.

Johnny’s the only child that is utterly unaware. The others, at the very least, know that Eliza is upset with me and choose to follow Philip’s lead in ignoring my existence. I know it’s a fair punishment but I terribly miss hugging my eldest without him shrugging me off or sitting down at the piano with Angelica without her abruptly leaving. 

A smile works its way across my face as I crouch down to his level, opening my arms to embrace him. Johnny rushes forward, wrapping his little arms around me. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, my boy.” With a kiss to the top of his head, I stand back up, smiling down at him.

“Come on now. It is way past your bedtime.” Eliza gently leads him out, going to shut the door behind her.

Before she can, I say a quick, “Good night, Eliza. Sleep well.”

She looks back and gives me a small smile, nodding as she shuts the door. And that one smile is more than enough for a grin to break across my face.

“I’m a big boy now. Bedtimes are for babies!” I hear Johnny yell, the sounds of their feet against the stairs following.

“Even  _ I _ have a bedtime, silly. Bedtimes are for everyone…” Eliza’s laughing voice slowly fades out as they continue upstairs. 

Silence once again falls upon the room, leaving me to my thoughts, more specifically Eliza’s words. My smile wanes as I remind myself that the past five minutes were pretend. Often, our acting is all too convincing.

_ I hate our name. I am embarrassed to be a Hamilton. _

The dark weaving story that drove me to expose how the whore’s son is truly that lays in front of me on the floor. I gather the 95 pages of humiliation, set them on the desk, and pour myself a glass of brandy, taking a swig and relishing in the burn of alcohol.

Unsurprisingly, I don’t feel any better having written it all down. Only heavier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a great day!!


End file.
